Ego is strange because it’s so familiar.
The rose takes for granted the soil below.
All birds assume azure aerial space,
just as we take for granted the air we breathe.
But ego is not always our brother,
not as reliable as the seasons
that blow on our heads without any care.
Plus ego has little care for the real
as it wanders the enchanted forest:
seeing its image in lakes and ponds,
rarely viewing from a mountain lookout
or even glimpse of sky above the tree line.
Ego is a pathetic animal
never looking out for a rock-slide fall…